Old Friends (Greg/Josh)

With only a phone call to say thank you, from Josh's old house none the less, Greg had settled in without actually seeing his friends. He had been here for a couple weeks, and was honestly, trying to avoid them. It took him only a few minutes to figure out why - he was jealous. They had something he didn't have any more, something which had been ripped away from him. Some son of a bitch had taken his husband from him, and he was left unprotected and unable to continue working. He was getting old anyways, his boss had said, maybe he should just retire and find some beauty in life again. Gregory smiled politely that day, his eyes bloodshot, as he told his boss, "Well fuck you very much, have a great day."

Big parties, now Greg could live with that. It was the kind of distraction he wanted, and it wasn't like there wouldn't be people he didn't know. Over the years, he had never made the trip out to see Sean in his abode, usually it was the other way around. Greg walked into the place and gave a low whistle, "Not bad, not bad at all." He smiled, slipping off his brown dress shoes, and had the strange urge to slide across the kitchen floor in his white socks. He hoped this wasn't some kind of mid-life crisis - he didn't want to live to a hundred.

Greg smiled bitterly, the cause for the get together really wasn't cause for celebration, but he raised his glass anyways. He moved to where Sean was, his glass in hand, looking at it thoughtfully, before glancing at Sean, his eyes sad, but a small smile on his face. "It's a bit bittersweet, but here's to friends," he said, clinking his glass against the telepath's. Truly, had Greg not been busy with the trial and going through Nate's things, he might have committed suicide. Now, there was nothing to keep him busy, and the thoughts were occurring almost every night. Friends were the only thing he had going for him at the moment.

"So where's good old Frosh?" Greg smiled over his glass, finishing the scotch already. If he hadn't died of liver failure yet, he decided it was made of something a little more sturdy than the average liver. He rubbed a hand over his tired looking face, looking at Sean through his fingers as he put the empty glass on the small coffee table. "We'll have to toast again once Josh shows his pretty face," he said, hinting towards the more scotch. It wasn't rude to let loose with friends, especially not now that he had nothing to lose. Sean, who could always read his mind, would understand.

Sean made it his goal to distract Greg from dark thoughts. He was long familiar with such thoughts, not only from his particularly bad nights, but also from thirty-two years of combined medical studies and practice and forty-two years of telepathy, and decades of life and observing the human condition. Greg’s thoughts were perfectly natural, because his life had been Hell for the past almost year and he’d suffered a heavy loss.

Unfortunately, the telepath couldn’t manipulate the fabric of space-time; if he could, none of this would have happened. They had to settle for the next best thing, which he could offer: distraction (and therapy, at a later time of Greg so desired).

“To friends,” Sean repeated with a small smile, before taking a sip of his scotch. It was a fitting toast, one of many he assumed they would make tonight, while they were sober and coherent enough to toast properly.

He noticed that Greg had finished his already, and he rose from the sofa to pour him a refill; this night was off to a good start, and if he could keep his friend’s dark thoughts at bay, he would consider this a rousing success. Grabbing the bottle of scotch, he filled Greg’s glass just in time for Josh to come downstairs and answer the question for himself.

“If you go upstairs to put on your pretty face, be sure to wear pink lipstick; the red makes you look like you’re in heat.”

Sean poured another glass of scotch and pressed it into Josh’s hand with the merest twitch of his lips, before the telepath returned to the sofa. “Of course, that’s only if Greg disapproves of your regular face.”

Josh accepted the scotch with an expression of exaggerated offense. "Pardon? I think the red looks very fetching on me." He sniffed, pressing his free hand to his heart in a wounded gesture.

Greg's comment earned a snort followed by another distraught response. "Such critics! I'll be driven to plastic surgery by the pair of you." Despite this complaint he returned the blonde's brief hug enthusiastically, albeit awkwardly with only one arm free.

He caught the near slip up with a small frown, debating whether to say anything or let it slide. He wasn't even entirely sure what to say to Greg's self-recrimination; nothing seemed quite right.

No use regretting what's been done. We're glad you're here now. We've all been busy. None of that seemed exactly sympathetic to their guest's plight. In fact, it seemed downright callous. Was there appropriate etiquette for this sort of situation? He wished he knew what it was.

Fortunately, Greg changed the subject before he could work himself up over this too much, and he returned the older man's grin, dropping onto the sofa beside his partner and slinging his free arm around his shoulder in answer.

"He's not sick of me yet, so evidently we haven't seen enough of one another."

Which, considering recent events, was all too true, though their routine was returning to normal between their unofficial therapy sessions and the excitement of the approaching holiday.

“Don’t you watch ET tonight?” Greg asked, as though he were some kind of expert, “Plastic surgery can make you look even worse than you already are.” He teased, before pacing and trying to make himself comfortable.

Making his way to sit across from them, instead of hovering above them, Greg consciously did his best not to down yet another glass of scotch. They hadn’t even started dinner yet, and he wasn’t some kind of teenager trying to forget his problems. He was a dismal, grown adult, trying to forget about his dead husband. Greg drank the rest of the scotch.

He nodded once with a smile as Sean remarked on the sentiment; he always had been and would always be the ‘wise’ one of the bunch, despite how much life experience they all had at this point.

“Yet,” he said, pointing at Josh as he leaned back into the chair, “being the key word there.” His light blue eyes flicked to Sean, “You two can toast to cohabitation, I’ve run out of scotch.” He smiled softly there, putting the empty glass down on the coffee table, hinting that he was done – for now.

He looked between the two gents and leaned forward, clapping his hands together, “So, can I help with dinner at all? Or did Sean beat me to it?” He asked, his eyes falling on Sean. “If you two aren’t sick of each other yet, then I don’t see what you’re trying to convince him of,” Greg’s eyes looking back to Josh as he said this. It was like the two were meant for one another, despite their ups and downs. Every relationship had those.

“Josh doesn’t watch anything,” Sean informed the blond. That was only a slight exaggeration, as the attorney watched some news programs (real news, not entertainment news), and Sean did occasionally succeed in convincing his partner to watch a movie or one of the few television programs that the telepath followed with him. He turned to look at Josh and then added, “But he’s right. Given the failure rate, I wouldn’t recommend it. We can just have Anya and Clarisse help with your makeup. I think that’s the best solution, wouldn’t you agree?”

While the telepath was glad that the other man was monitoring his alcohol intake, he didn’t think Greg needed to be so restrained. Yes, there were healthier methods of coping than drinking, but he was with friends and it was a safe environment. However, Sean could nudge him quietly that way; he wanted Greg to be comfortable. And at the mention of running out of scotch, the telepath untangled himself from Josh and rose to his feet. “We’ll just have to remedy that.”

Then he was back at the bar and grabbed the bottle of scotch to bring over.

“The only thing either of you can do to help with supper at this point is to eat it.” Sean had made sure to do all of the cooking before Greg’s arrival because he didn’t want their friend to have to exert any effort with this. “And it’s ready. Is the consensus that we want to eat now? Because we can move this party to the dining room.” Sean certainly had no objections to that plan of action.

Josh shrugged amicably at Sean's remarks regarding his television watching habits. It was quite true that he rarely watched TV or movies; there were a handful he would agree to watch if Sean sold them the right way, or because they had emotional significance, or because they were political diatribes he felt going in he would agree with. He did not make a habit of watching anything, however.

"Sometimes I watch C-Span." He offered, scratching at his chin thoughtfully. "If I want to feel better about my own life I read Tacitus." Actually, considering all the rampant murder and politicking Tacitus wrote about perhaps that wasn't the best book to suggest to someone recently bereaved. Oops. He had to hope Greg hadn't read that one.

He followed the blonde into the dining room, grabbing his own glass of scotch, "I think eating can be managed." Fortunately Greg was doing a decent enough job at remaining outwardly cheerful, much better than Josh thought he would do in the same situation.

"I should let the chef explain his masterpiece." He grinned, nodding toward his partner. As Sean was the one who made it, he therefore got to explain exactly what he'd created.

Greg made no comment on Tacitus. He resisted the urge to ask Josh if having a real life excerpt on the subject, made him feel better in his own home.

“Managed?” He snorted. “It will be done, and done right, if I know Sean as well as I think I do,” Greg smiled warmly, taking the man’s arm as he waited for Sean to announce what was for dinner. “Yes yes, chicken and salad, wonderful.” The blonde raised an eyebrow before chuckling. “Mixing wine and scotch tonight? Aw, you boys know what that does to me!” He was happy though as he sat at the table, smoothing out his clothes as he pulled the chair forward.

He glanced between the two men from behind his hands, his elbows resting on the table. “Water is fine, just fine,” he said with a small smile, watching the two retreat into the kitchen. Greg sighed, slumping back into his chair. They would talk in the kitchen, perhaps about him, perhaps about personal matters. Perhaps they would share a kiss, he knew he would snatch up that opportunity if Nate...

He wiped hard at his face; there was no point in dwelling on the past. Wine was sounding helpful, he would skip out on the water.